Triggers & Ties 8: Eggshells
by Kuria Dalmatia
Summary: It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked. Hotch/Reid, the BAU ADULT CONTENT
1. Introduction, Warnings, Disclaimers

Title: Triggers & Ties 8: Eggshells, Chapter 1

Author: Kuria Dalmatia

Rating/Warnings: FRM/R (profanity, adult content)

Characters/Pairing: Hotch/Reid, the BAU

Summary: It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked.

Word Count: ~9,700

ARCHIVING: my LJ... anyone else? Please ask first.

Feedback always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head. Oh yeah. And DC Comics owns the quote.

VERSION: February 2010, started in Maastricht, Netherlands and Brussels, Belgium. Finished June 2010.

TIMELINES/SPOILERS: Season 5 "Faceless, Nameless". This story takes place in the 34 days between 5x01 and 5x02.

COMMENTS: This isn't a pleasant fic. We tend to take our anger, fears and frustrations out on those closest to us. Medications that help heal us also can have vicious side-effects.

While TPTB seemed to have forgotten they gave Hotch a brother in Season 1 ("The Tribe"), the fans didn't. So, I gave a reason why that, well, Sean Hotchner wasn't around during the whole Reaper deal. BTW, I'm not obsessed with Hotch puking in a sink or him threatening Reid with a gun. It just happens. And, having been on a few prescription cocktails for various things (knee surgery included), I know from personal experience that there are such things as serious side-effects.

Yeah, there may be some HIPPA issues floating around Hotch's after-care but, hell, do you really think the Team would _not_ stick their fingers in the pie? Didn't think so.

Thanks to both Theras and Pharmawriter for help with cutlery and chests, and again to Theras for medical terminology and procedure. To MomBailey1973 for a ton of handholding and pushing hard on a few scenes. To Pabzi for the cheerleading and the crit. To Lady_of_scarlet for the beta and commentary. Thank you.

***/***


	2. Chapter 1

Title: Triggers & Ties 8: Eggshells, Chapter 1

Author: Kuria Dalmatia

Rating/Warnings: FRM/R (profanity, adult content)

Characters/Pairing: Hotch/Reid, the BAU

Summary: It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked.

Word Count: ~9,700

ARCHIVING: my LJ and FFNet account... anyone else? Please ask first.

_*****/*****_

"_**In brightest day, in blackest night,**_

_**No evil shall escape my sight.**_

_**Let those who worship evil's might,**_

_**Beware my power..."**_

_** —Captain Hal Jordan, USAF**_

_*****/*****_

It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked. The trepidation. The irrational fear rushing through him followed by the sharp swift pain as his body protested when he involuntarily tensed up.

He wondered if his neighbors peeked out of their doorways as he passed by, unsure whether to apologize for _not_ calling 9-1-1 when they had heard the ruckus coming from his apartment at nearly midnight. For fuck's sake, the damn gun hadn't had a silencer. The shot had been loud. If _that_ hadn't alerted them to something being wrong, the scuffle afterward should have been a big hint.

Cowards. _Bastard cowards_.

How many times during cases had Hotch heard witnesses protest, "But I didn't want to get involved!" or "I thought it was nothing."

Hotch had little patience for those types of people before all this mess, and this incident only solidified his disdain for those thoughtless, careless, _selfish_ cowards. God help them if Hotch had to ever question one of them during a case.

Hotch fumbled with his keys, cursing the harsh sting along his forearm and sides.

_You shouldn't be doing this alone. _

Fuck that. He didn't need any damn help.

_You don't want them to see you this way. Weak. Feeble. You can't even wipe your own ass without doubling over in agony._

Thank God the team (including Garcia) was in Texarkana, his brother was in France, and his parents were dead. Haley and Jack were…

No. It was better not to think about the latter.

He jabbed the key in the lock. He could manage just fine on his own.

***/***

The cocktail of prescription painkillers, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics, anti-anxiety, and anti-depressants made him dizzy and nauseous.

Hotch had never been keen on taking medications, even for the aches that came after someone had attempted to garrote him. Or from wrecking the SUV into the UnSub's vehicle as a last-ditch effort to end the chase. Or from bone-deep bruising that one could only get after being blown ten feet backwards as a car bomb had detonated.

He had lined up the bottles on top of the toilet tank, labels facing outward. They were arranged in order of dosage frequency. The last one was supposed to be taken before going to bed, one that would knock him out for at least six hours.

Six hours where he would be at his weakest, most vulnerable.

Hotch hadn't taken it last night because he had puked up the chicken broth and medication he had for dinner; he wasn't about to risk another round of worshipping the porcelain god. It was a special kind of agony when surgically-repaired abdominal muscles heaved.

Thank God the team was still in Texarkana.

And if Hotch hadn't called his brother after being nearly blown up in New York over a year ago, there was no way in hell he was going to call him over something as trivial as being stabbed. Sean had finally secured an internship in Courchevel, a stepping stone Hotch was sure his younger brother needed to advance in the culinary world. There was absolutely no reason to disrupt that. No reason at all.

_It's your arrogance that's going to do you in_.

He shuffled towards the living room, not wasting the energy to actually lift his feet. His toes dug into the soft plush of the carpet. Going without dress shoes and socks had been Hotch's only concession while dressing this morning. The loose fabric of his boxers and the fine wool of his suit trousers felt good against his legs. The soft cotton of his undershirt contrasted comfortably against the starchiness of his pinpoint oxford dress shirt. The red silk tie was his "Tuesday" one, an order he kept in his closet to avoid wearing the same one twice in a row. Haley had started that particular ritual, insisting that there was no way he would ever move up the chain of command if people believed that he only had three ties. It was one of the few leftovers from his marriage that he still abided by.

Like people actually gave a shit about what kind of tie he wore.

_Reid does._

To hell with Reid.

His big toe caught on a rough patch of the carpeting that shouldn't have been there. He glanced down and then to the side, and when the nausea hit, he automatically pawed for the desk chair that should have been to his left but wasn't. Bile tickled at the back of his throat and Hotch decided that the kitchen sink was closer than the toilet.

He made it in time and watched through watery eyes as the undigested pills swam in the yellowish liquid his body had expelled.

Stupid. He knew better than to take those medications on an empty stomach.

But, at least he learned something: leaning over the sink to puke was certainly less stressful on his body than kneeling in front of the toilet. The garbage disposal would take care of any food that came up.

His heart hammered in his chest. Annoying as hell, but it would subside eventually.

Hotch rinsed out his mouth before washing down the mess. Once finished, he cleared space to the left of the faucet so he could move his medications there. It made sense, actually. Close to the sink and the water glasses. Near the fridge so he'd remember to eat something when taking the pills.

Plus, prescription drug addicts—which Hotch definitely was not—tended to keep their paraphernalia squirreled away in the bathroom. So when the Team stopped by (and he knew they would), it would be one less thing for them to check off on their "How bad is Hotch's PTSD?" list.

_Why hadn't anyone searched for him after he didn't pick up the phone right away on that morning?_

Hotch shook his head.

_Why hadn't Reid?_

Had Reid kept his Dialudid in his bathroom back when he had been using? Or had he carried it around in his messenger bag? Probably the latter, because there had been mornings when Reid had been a bit slower, a bit slurrier, than normal.

It wasn't as if Hotch would ever _ask_.

Reid could go to hell.

***/***


	3. Chapter 2

Title: Triggers & Ties 8: Eggshells, Chapter 2

Author: Kuria Dalmatia

Rating/Warnings: FRM/R (profanity, adult content)

Characters/Pairing: Hotch/Reid, the BAU

Summary: It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked.

Word Count: ~9,700

ARCHIVING: my LJ... anyone else? Please ask first.

Feedback always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head. Oh yeah. And DC Comics owns the quote.

***/***

Hotch's post-divorce, new apartment indulgence had been the flat screen plasma TV. He only had basic cable, since the amount of travel required for the Job did not merit one hundred twenty-six channels. He also favored movies over television shows, especially because it seemed there was no escape from procedural dramas.

He skipped over the "Reid" section of his collection, although his attention lingered on _The Empire Strikes Back_, which was next to a copy of _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang_. "There's a surprising similarity between Emperor Palpatine and the Child Catcher," Reid had said in passing but, oddly, had never elaborated on. Still, _Empire _was Reid's favorite of the Star Wars triology—they both had agreed that the prequels didn't count as _real_ Star Wars movies—and one of four that Reid would pop in when he took over Hotch's kitchen to make a meal. Hotch could cook, but Reid did it better, cheerfully explaining that, "Cooking is chemistry with edible ingredients."

Hotch wondered how many times _that_ line had been used.

Still, Hotch had put up with the movie he had a personal hatred of, because Reid was a decent cook. He knew he hid his dislike of it well; Reid was stupidly conscientious about things like that and would have certainly retired the movie from rotation if he had known.

But it wasn't as if Hotch would ever explain. Some things were just too… personal. It wasn't as if Reid had earned the explanation, especially after…

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hotch still remembered sitting in the tenth row, middle seat on _Empire_'s opening day with two of his friends. When the climatic scene where Darth Vader declared that he was Luke's father and Luke's subsequent denial had unfolded onscreen, Hotch had been transfixed. There it was: proof. Proof that a person was not destined to become his father. An evil that, up until that moment when Luke shouted how he would never join Vader, Hotch had been convinced he would grow up to become.

There had been hope.

But the evening of that revelation, his father had dashed it courtesy of a tennis racket to Hotch's shoulders and thighs.

Hotch hated the movie ever since. He also loathed tennis.

There. _Some Like It Hot_ with Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe. One of Billy Wilder's finest.

He muted the sound before settling on the couch and picking up the file on his coffee table.

Just because he was on mandatory leave didn't mean he shouldn't be working.

***/***

Hotch owned navy sheets. Not because he was into the whole home décor crap, but because the sheets had been on sale. He wasn't going to waste money on something that he wasn't really home all that much to use. If he wanted fancy bed linens, he would go to Reid's.

"You'd be surprised what you can find in a thrift shop," Reid had said once in defense of the insanely-high thread count. It was bedding that Hotch would never admit that he had a certain, hedonistic weakness for, ones for which (at one time) he would have stayed the night without hesitation if they were on Reid's bed.

Reid.

He glared at his personal cell phone as it rang. Again. Fourth time in the past hour. Sixteen text messages since seven a.m. Where the fuck was all this persistence on _that_ morning?

To hell with Spencer Reid.

STOP CALLING, he pounded out on the little keys and refused to read whatever messages were sent. He threw the phone towards the kitchen just because he could.

He re-tucked the sheet around the cushions of his navy couch and fluffed his pillow. Sure, his bed was more comfortable, but the television was in the living room as were the case files, and he had more room to work.

He settled back on the couch, stretching his legs out. Awkward, sure, because his gun rested oddly on his hip. It wasn't either of his Glocks, which were still (annoyingly) in evidence, but the second service weapon he had ever owned: a Sig Sauer, the same style that Gideon used to carry. Because of the bandages, Hotch had to wear the hostler forward, like Reid did, and he wondered how in God's name Reid could ever effectively draw his weapon.

Shit. No wonder the idiot had been shot in the fucking knee. Served him right for carrying his weapon so stupidly. It also made Hotch think of the Philip Dowd case, and afterward, how Reid had carried Hotch's backup Glock in his fucking _pocket_. Jesus Christ, how dumb was that?

Hotch sighed and adjusted the pillow again. He glanced at the door, making a mental note to find out how much the additional lock had cost, and knowing he would have to bully Morgan into accepting the money as repayment. Morgan had also been responsible for having the bullet hole in the wall repaired and the area of carpeting that had been soaked with blood replaced.

He stared at the plate with his lunch on it. Yes, his fridge had been stocked full of the essentials—milk, juice, eggs, fruits and vegetables—and his freezer full of individually, homemade meals all from Mama Bianchi's. He knew which member of the team provided what. The cookies craftily tucked away in the bread cubby were definitely from Garcia, while JJ and Prentiss had provided the fridge items. Rossi, of course, had brought the Italian.

He craved Reid's chicken and rice casserole.

It pissed him off.

The Team was now in Missoula.

Hotch took a bite of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

***/***

Hotch wasn't sure what he was thinking when he had put his Friday tie in the washer along with his dress trousers. The trip through the dryer had only made them worse. 'Dry Clean Only' meant Dry Clean Only. He balled them up and stuffed them in the trashcan by his desk. He wasn't sure what do with his suit coat that now didn't have matching trousers.

He settled down on the couch, smoothing out the navy sheet against the back cushions. His gun was still forward on his hip, but he'd practiced relentlessly until he was able to draw and aim the weapon with the same fluid motion that he had with his Glock. It was still awkward, but he had mastered it.

The team was still in Missoula, everyone except Reid taking turns calling him every night. Garcia hadn't graced his door just yet, thank God.

Hotch checked the newly installed security system.

Again.

***/***

The _thump-thump-thump_ jolted Hotch from his nap. He immediately palmed the hilt of his gun as his vision cleared from the fog of sleep. He swung his feet to the floor, ignoring the protest of his body, and listened carefully, noting the odd gait of whoever was walking down the hallway in his apartment building.

Anger flared up, because if _he_ could hear the sounds of someone clumsily making his way down the hall, then why hadn't any of his goddamn neighbors deigned to call 9-1-1 when they had heard the shot? Hotch could make out the thumping, and he had a ten-percent hearing loss in his right ear.

Sharp knocks at the front door followed, and Hotch immediately recognized the pattern.

He blamed the medication for the dizziness as he stood, as well as for the nausea that triggered a wet, bile-laced belch. He shuffled to the door. He checked the peephole twice, once to confirm his visitor and a second time to make sure there was no one else lurking behind him.

He undid the locks, biting back the flare of pain from his left side. He swung the door open, took a step back, and adjusted his stance.

Reid looked like shit. Pale skin even paler than before. Sweat glistening on his upper lip and forehead. Hair matted around his face while the rest of it looked greasier than usual, as if Reid hadn't washed it in days. The younger man leaned heavily on the aluminum crutches, knuckles white where he gripped the handles. The black brace was stark against his khaki pants. The bag that was slung across his body wasn't his usual tan leather one. This one was olive green and a little larger, looking suspiciously like Army surplus.

"What do you want?" Hotch asked sharply.

"May I come in?" Reid's voice was firm. Polite.

"Why?"

He let go of the right crutch and held out his hand, palm up. The silver key glinted in the low light.

Anger turned quickly to cold fury. Hotch remembered the conversation, the offer made, and was stunned at the audacity. "You want me to leave my goddamn apartment?"

Reid's mouth dropped open slightly before he said, "No." He shifted on his crutches, barely masking the wince. "May I please come in and sit down? I want to talk. We haven't since…"

"There's a reason for that," Hotch snapped. He didn't have to say, _Why didn't you call that morning when you realized I was late? Why is this the first time you've stopped by? God knows everyone else on the damn team has been here. _

He broke away from Hotch's gaze. Softly, "Please, Aaron."

"No." Hotch slammed the door closed. He was in no mood to deal with this.

***/***

The fourth time Rossi circled around the coffee table, Hotch had had enough. To hell with manners and polite conversation.

"Will you fucking stop that?" Hotch snarled as he sat at his desk. He still hadn't finished the incident report. He knew he couldn't submit something that said: 'the motherfucking piece of shit bastard stabbed me like the impotent fucker he is' followed by 'my goddamn team was only thirty-minutes away from my apartment and none of the selfish assholes bothered to check why I wasn't answering my goddamn phone' and ending with, 'Spencer Reid is a prescription drug addict. Dialudid is his drug of choice. Random weekly drug tests should be mandatory.'

It still felt good to type it.

Rossi paused and then turned to face him. "And if I don't?"

Hotch simply glared.

The other man nodded slightly. "I know you're on edge. Hell, I would be to, considering." He gestured in the air, indicating Hotch's living space. "Are you sure it's a good idea to stay here?"

"That son of a bitch is not chasing me from my own goddamn apartment."

Rossi let out a sigh. "Is that what this is all about? Who has the bigger balls? Christ, Aaron, you know better than to play that game."

Hotch didn't reply. Instead, he closed his laptop and pushed away from his desk. He stood, cursing inwardly that he still had to hold on to something for balance. He also cursed inwardly at Rossi, who made no bones about observing his behavior.

"Spencer was at the office today," Rossi said after a few moments. "First time since he got shot. He has to keep his leg propped up to keep the swelling down. He says he's been cleared to go back to work."

"And?"

"You do know that Morgan's been staying with him."

Hotch flinched. A fresh wave of pain hit from where his muscles tensed. He bit down on his lower lip to keep from gasping aloud. His hand found the grip of his gun. "And why the fuck should I care?"

"If my lover was shacking up with… What does Garcia call him? The Chocolate Mountain Thunder Sex God? You know, the guy who can pick up anyone in any bar at any time without lifting a finger?"

"Reid gets solicited far more often than Morgan does," Hotch interrupted flatly. He watched as Rossi casually approached him.

"Solicited. Nice term there, Aaron."

"What the hell is your point?"

"My point is that yesterday was the first time Spencer left his apartment since being released from the hospital," Rossi replied. "You know? He's had a few setbacks. Some issue about a bone chip or some shit like that. So, yesterday, he _orders_ Morgan to drive him here. He refuses to allow Morgan to help him out of the car, up the stairs, going all 'Mister Independent, I'm Fine' and all that crap." Rossi closed the distance between him. "It seems that Spencer had been planning on staying with you. You know. Since it was _Thursday_ and all that."

"Thursday," Aaron sneered.

"Yeah. _Thursday._ As in, on the Friday mornings that we're in town, you're not such a complete bastard," Rossi shot back. "Hell, you even smile on occasion." He planted his hands on his hips, one close to the Springfield .45 on his belt.

"We are not having this conversation, Rossi."

"Oh yes, the hell, we are, _Aaron_." He crowded into Hotch's personal space. "Spencer took a cab in this morning, and the first thing everyone thought was that he'd stayed with you. Morgan dared to ask how you were doing but got cut off. And you know Spencer's a pretty nice guy. He doesn't take people's heads off unless he's really upset about something. And when I asked him how it went last night, he told me—and I quote—'it's none of your fucking business.'"

"He's right about that, Rossi. It really isn't any of your damn business."

"Aaron, I consider you one of my closest friends," he countered. "And I've watched you and Spencer sort out your relationship in the pressure-cooker of the BAU, watched how you've come to rely upon each other. You're discreet. You're also cautious. You both also make it clear that you _don't_ let your personal relationship interfere with the Job. How the fuck you two manage to do that is beyond me. But, regardless, you do."

"Stop it, Rossi."

"No."

Hotch crossed his arms over his chest, pain exploding through his waist and torso at the sudden movement. His vision blurred for a few seconds and he knew he swayed. Still, their gazes locked. Hotch knew he was bearing his teeth.

"Don't you see what you're doing?" Rossi's lips peeled back into a sharp yet sour smile. "Foyet's been stalking you for _months. _He wanted his attack to be perfect.So like a good little psycho who happens to be skilled with computers, he gets a whole bunch of information on you. Divorce records are public, you know, so Foyet knew that Haley filed, not you. He knows the terms of the custody agreement. He figured out his target. He knew what would have the biggest impact on you. He then picked the best moment, the best time to attack."

"Get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Think about it, Aaron. Foyet already_ knew_ that you and Spencer spend a lot of off-duty time with each other," Rossi continued. "He also knew that you spend the night together sometimes. But that didn't fit in to what he wanted, to what he had planned. Spencer's not a target, Aaron."

"I said…"

"He's not," Rossi insisted. Suddenly, he shook his head. "You're doing exactly what Foyet wants, Aaron. You're cutting yourself off from everyone."

"Go to hell, Rossi."

"You're letting him win, _Aaron_. Stop being such a bastard and let us help, okay? Let _Spencer_ help."

"Get out or so help me, God, I will…"

"Think about it," Rossi stated coolly. "Really, truly _think_ about it. Something like what you have with Spencer doesn't come around all that often. I should know. I'm—what? Fifty-five now?—and I'm _still_ searching for what you managed to luck in to. You throw this away? Then Foyet has won." He spun on his heels and then walked swiftly to the door. "I know you'll lock up behind me."

Rossi left.

And Aaron sank to the floor of his kitchen, hugging his knees to his chest and ignoring the pain blazing through his body.

_You're letting him win, Aaron._

***/***


	4. Chapter 3

Title: Triggers & Ties 8: Eggshells, Chapter 3

Author: Kuria Dalmatia

Rating/Warnings: FRM/R (profanity, adult content)

Characters/Pairing: Hotch/Reid, the BAU

Summary: It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked.

Word Count: ~9,700

ARCHIVING: my LJ... anyone else? Please ask first.

Feedback always welcome.

***/***

"Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"Yes," Hotch answered, trying his best not to snarl at Ginny as she scribbled in his chart. It wasn't her fault that he had been stabbed. It certainly wasn't her fault that the cabbie just wouldn't shut the fuck up on the way over here. It absolutely wasn't her fault that Doctor Reyes was running forty-minutes late.

It wasn't as if Hotch had to be anywhere that afternoon; he had fifteen more days of mandatory leave. He was on his fourth revision of how to respond to the psych evaluation.

She continued with the preliminary inquiry about his medications, appetite, pain levels… Her voice was full of pity and with a tone that was more suited when speaking to children than an adult. Her fingers lingered just a little too long taking his pulse. Her thumb brushed the edge of the bandage on his right forearm, her breath hitching a little.

He didn't appreciate the coy way she looked at him between writing the notes for Reyes.

_She's on her second marriage. Two children judging by the dated bangles on her bracelet. A career in healthcare is an afterthought, the 'need to get a job because I'm getting a divorce' type. Ginny's a painter, landscapes more than likely, because of the various shades of green she hasn't quite been able to scrub off her fingertips and from under her nails. It's not taking care of people that gives Ginny job satisfaction; it's being able to read someone's charts and convince herself that her life is no where near as shitty as someone else's. It's why she's a technician, not a full RN or nurse practitioner. She doesn't have the patience or drive to accomplish more than that._

_Ginny's itching to see his wounds because they aren't the typical ones that this office deals with. Reyes' patients aren't law enforcement officers; they're lawyers and stockbrokers and lobbyists and other white-collar workers who think that every crime is solved like on the procedural TV dramas. _

_Fucking idiots._

_She can't wait to gossip to the other women in the office that yes, it's __**him**__, and she desperately wants to see him with the gown open. The glint in her eyes is completely unprofessional._

_Ginny occasionally meets patients outside of the office. The way she holds his wrist while taking his pulse. The way she leans so that the neckline of her scrubs—which have been altered to be lower-cut than the standard because the stitching doesn't match the rest of the top—gapes, enabling him to take a peek if he wanted. The way she shifts her hips and glances over to him. She's probably wearing a red lace bra because that's what men see in porn films and she wants to be the Naughty Nurse._

"I need to listen to you heart." Ginny smiled in what she probably thought was a friendly-manner. But her mouth was set just a little too off-center, her lips tipped just a little too much. She held up the chrome chestpiece and then breathed on it. "To make it warmer," she explained, almost cooing. "We don't want that cold metal against your bare skin!"

Hotch hitched an eyebrow. He rolled his shoulders back and fixed her with a stare. He had intimidated the fuck out of the nursing staff in New York City last year, and they were used to dealing with stubborn jackasses. This woman was nowhere near as tough (or able) as the staff at that New York hospital.

Ginny took a step back.

Hotch's smile was anything but friendly. "First, you're only a technician, not a nurse practitioner. You do not have the training for auscultating a heart. You use this ploy as part of your seduction, to see how willing your target is to accept your advances. You have affairs with patients of this office to make up for the inadequacies of your home life, both socially and sexually.

"Secondly, the last 'cold metal against my bare skin' was a switchblade wielded by a psychopath, which you should have known given how familiar you are with my chart. You won't be fired outright; Doctor Reyes will dismiss my claims as part of the obvious PTSD that I'm experiencing. However, he will monitor your actions more closely. Once Reyes has proof of your indiscretions, you will be put on administrative probation. The words 'sexual harassment' will never be brought up, but certainly there are other patients besides me who find your behavior unacceptable."

Her gaze darted from side-to-side. "Mister Hotchner…"

"You're finished here, Ginny," he said flatly.

Her exit was anything but graceful.

Reyes appeared a few minutes later, shaking his head as he closed the door. "You're being a hard-ass on my staff again, Aaron."

"Your staff was being unprofessional, Claude," he retorted. "Ginny made a pass at me."

"You're a handsome man."

"It's inappropriate in the workplace, especially in a medical professional atmosphere." He met Claude's curious stare. "I'm not the first one she has offered 'out patient' services to." Claude's lips tightened slightly and he rocked a little back on his feet. Hotch shook his head. "Which you've known about, of course, and you keep hoping that she will turn her attentions to you. A woman like that, Claude, is no reason to ruin your marriage. She seduces men above her social status…"

"Aaron, that's enough."

He shrugged his shoulders and looked away. "Your choice."

The doctor raised an eyebrow and then read aloud, "Irritability, dizziness, nausea…" The change in subject was hardly unexpected and was as clumsy as the man's attempt to hide his desire for that technician. "Hyper-vigilance is expected after what you've been through. Have you found yourself more short-tempered with family…"

"The son of a bitch took my family away, Claude."

Reyes closed the folder and leaned against the counter. "Not all of them. You still have your team. When my dad worked…"

"Are you going to check the sutures or not?" he interrupted.

"Are you taking the medications that the hospitalist prescribed in addition to those that I had prescribed?"

Hotch glared. "Yes."

Reyes nodded thoughtfully. "Well, that at least explains some of your behavior. Given the condition that you were in when you were left at Saint Sebastian's, I'm not surprised that the staff weren't able to pull your medical history right away. Not with how protective your group is about personal information."

"We've had our personal information used against us, Claude."

"And the medications that the hospital physician prescribed don't mix well with the ones that you're already taking," he responded. "Now, I am going to check the sutures to see how they are healing. I'm also going to prescribe a new drug regime to hopefully alleviate the paranoia and agitation."

"I'm paranoid?" he challenged.

"You're sitting in an examination room wearing a hospital gown, boxers, socks, and an ankle holster with a loaded gun. I'm sure Ginny didn't see the—what is that? A Sig Sauer?—that you have hidden by the gown and the paper covering the exam table. In all the times I've seen you, Aaron, you've rarely carried your weapons in to the office and, when you do, you disarm yourself before the staff comes in for the pre-exam questions." Claude let out a slow breath. "You're also very hostile."

"Hostile?"

"Let's put it this way, Aaron. Two of your three emergency contacts called me on my unlisted number, one of whom gave me a laundry list of things to check for. He even had a printed copy hand-delivered to my condo plus a list of observed behaviors by different colleagues. The biggest concern was your hostility and that you were armed. I was also provided a timeline of the attack. Doctor Reid? Well, the man certainly knows his stuff."

His lips pulled back into a sneer. He surprised himself with his demand: "Where the hell was all this concern that morning?"

Reyes dropped his hands to his sides. "They estimate that Foyet attacked you near midnight. You were admitted to Saint Sebastian's at five the next morning. They didn't get the call for the case until seven. There was no way they could have helped you, Aaron, and no way that they could have known. It's not their fault. I know it's easier to blame…"

"We're done here," Hotch announced and slid off the table. "We're done."

***/***

Hotch wasn't sure why he opened the door. Maybe because he realized Reid would continue knocking like some OCD idiot until he answered it. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the sight before him. Reid still looked like shit, hair a complete mess and greasier than last time. Hotch stepped aside but didn't gesture for him to come in. He watched in disdain as Reid slowly _thumped_ inside and then quickly locked and bolted the door after him.

"Thank you," Reid said quietly as he turned to face him.

It was then he remembered what Reyes had said to him yesterday. "You called my personal physician and handed over sensitive information!" he snapped without preamble.

Reid straightened. His chin lifted. "I'm your lover," Reid countered flatly. "The good. The bad. And the ugly."

"You son of a bitch."

"You're acting irrationally, Aaron."

"You've never been stabbed by a goddamn psychopath!" he yelled.

"Technically, I have. Hankel stabbed me with a needle several times and injected me with Dilaudid when he did. It is a type of symbolic rape. Penetration: the needle. Ejaculation: the release of fluid in my bloodstream. Unlike you, I've actually been killed by one, but at least he had the courtesy of resuscitating me. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

Hotch's stomach picked that precise moment to protest the Campbell's Chunky Beef Stew. He barely made it to the sink in time. He could hear the thump of crutches over the roar of the garbage disposal. When he was finish cleaning up the mess, he whirled around, hand dropping to his hip, and glared at Reid.

"Are you going to shoot me, Aaron?" There was sharpness in his tone. His gaze flickered down.

Hotch's grip tightened on his Sig Sauer. He forced himself to pry his fingers away from the reassuring weight. He didn't drop his gaze from Reid's.

The younger man's eyes narrowed as he looked past Hotch to the kitchen counter. He hobbled forward, forcing Hotch to move when his crutch tip came too close to crushing his bare toes. Reid leaned down briefly before asking quietly, "Have you been taking all of these as prescribed?"

"You have no business…"

"I'm still listed as your emergency contact," Reid replied as he straightened. "So until you change that, this _is_ my business."

Hotch glared.

Reid's chin lifted again. "Everything I saw last time and in the first three minutes tonight tells me that you're paranoid, agitated, and hyper-vigilant. Yes, those are to be expected, but you've taken it to an extreme. You've been sleeping on your couch, haven't you? Facing the door so you can react if someone entered."

"Stop."

"No."

"Reid."

"_Aaron._"

"Get out."

"No."

Hotch closed the distance between them, rolling his shoulders forward and glaring harshly. "Get out of my apartment now!"

"Foyet knows about us, Aaron. He _knows_," Reid said firmly, softly. "He was able to break into your apartment with no signs of forced entry. He picked the night that you were the most tired, the most vulnerable, and the most alone."

"Stop."

"Please, Aaron."

"Get out."

"I'm not the target. I will never be the target," Reid continued, "because Foyet doesn't see me as a threat. And that's his mistake and that's going to help us catch him."

"I said leave, Reid."

The man broke eye contact, glancing to the side and then to the floor. "I want _us_, Aaron."

"There is no 'us.'"

"Yes, there is. You just have to…"

"Leave._"_

Reid bit his lips together and then shook his head. "I'm sorry," whispered. "I'm so sorry this happened. So sorry—"

"Stop with the apologies. It's pathetic. Look at you! _You're_ pathetic. You'll never _replace_ Haley. You can never _be_ like her or take her place. She's beautiful, loving and gracious. No matter what you think and no matter how hard you try, you can never be her. Not then. Not now. Not ever. It's over, Reid. It's over."

Reid's eyes widened. His mouth dropped open.

"It's over, Reid."

"Aaron!"

"It's. Over."

Reid's mouth clamped shut. His lips formed a thin line. His eyes narrowed. He straightened to his full height.

And Hotch watched as the younger man slowly turned and hobbled out of his apartment without a backward glance.

"It's over," Aaron repeated softly, and wondered why his cheeks were damp.

***/***


	5. Chapter 4

Title: Triggers & Ties 8: Eggshells, Chapter 4

Author: Kuria Dalmatia

Rating/Warnings: FRM/R (profanity, adult content)

Characters/Pairing: Hotch/Reid, the BAU

Summary: It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked.

Word Count: ~9,700

ARCHIVING: my LJ... anyone else? Please ask first.

Feedback always welcome.

DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head. Oh yeah. And DC Comics owns the quote.

***/***

Aaron woke up screaming.

He grabbed his gun from beneath his pillow, pain surging through his body as he swiftly got to his feet.

He panted heavily.

His heart raced.

He couldn't find his flashlight.

He struggled to turn on the lights.

He prowled his apartment, whispering 'clear' after each corner he turned, after each closet he checked, and after each room he surveyed.

Clear.

_Clear_.

He crawled back into bed.

He kept the lights on.

He slept with his gun in his hands.

****/***

Showering with nine stab wounds was a phenomenal pain in the ass, but Aaron was determined to do it. He couldn't get the sutures wet, so he used gauze pads (which he had tons of, thanks to JJ, Garcia _and_ Prentiss) and layered squares of cling wrap over them before sealing them with waterproof tape.

He'd never been particularly vain about his arm or chest hair but the shaved areas made him think of the Looney Toons cartoon where the electric shaver had gotten out of hand and how the Monster ended up with bare spots. He remembered sitting on his couch, DVD remote in one hand, and his arm around Spencer's shoulders. He remembered Spencer's passionate discussion of how hair tonic just couldn't _do_ that.

Aaron remembered chuckling. _When you're five years old, you really don't think about things like that_.

He remembered how Spencer had crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. _I thought about things like that when I was five_.

_Of course you did._ Aaron had leaned in, pressing a soft kiss on Spencer's jaw._ It's one of the reasons I_…

Aaron dropped the scissors in sink.

He gripped the porcelain with both hands.

"It's better this way," he whispered, head bowed. His vision blurred. "It's better this way."

***/***

Aaron stared.

And stared some more.

He recognized the envelope immediately without having to look at the handwriting; it was the same type that Spencer used for letters to his mother. Hell, Aaron even had a box of the stationary at his apartment.

He checked the date and then the seal; Spencer was the only person he knew of who actually used wax on his correspondence. Satisfied that it hadn't been tampered with, Aaron used the letter opener to slice open the top. He sat down at his desk as he pulled out the sheaf of paper.

Several objects spilled out: the key to Aaron's apartment, a penny, a nickel, a dime, a quarter and a half-dollar.

The piece of paper was blank.

Aaron's hands shook.

It took three tries for him to pick up the penny and he swiveled the arm of his desk lamp so that the light was closer to the coin. It was a 1999 Wide AM Reverse Lincoln Cent, the rarest of the three wide "AM" pennies produced between 1998 and 2000; Reid had given him the other two for Valentine's Day. The coin's luster was superb and there were very little strike marks. It would probably be graded Choice Uncirculated-MS63.

"_Penny for your thoughts," Spencer murmured as they lay next to each other in Aaron's bed. It was four days before Aaron's birthday and they finally had a quiet moment. Spencer caressed Aaron's left ear and then held up a dullish penny. The way he waved it front of Aaron's face made him sit up and take the coin. _

_Aaron inspected it out of habit, because knowing Spencer, it wasn't just any penny. He nearly dropped it when he realized just what he held. "This is a 1972 Lincoln Cent, Doubled Die Obverse…" He stared at Spencer. "Do you have any idea…?" He stopped himself and shook his head. "Of course you do. What grade is it? VF-20? No. Wait. VF-30?"_

_Spencer laughed as he slid his glasses on, moving so that he was now shoulder to shoulder with Aaron. "You know? Jack has your smile."_

The penny fell from Aaron's fingers, rolling until it settled beside the other coins.

He didn't bother trying to pick up the others, his hands trembling he moved the light closer to see the details on them. They had landed face up, their vibrant luster clearly indicating they were uncirculated. They were probably M61 or M62. It was then that Aaron saw the "P" on each.

His breath caught.

They were the four he was missing from the 1973 series in his coin album. The ones he refused to discuss with Spencer except to answer that, yes, 'one of these years' he would complete the set but it was 'no big deal' and really 'not quite worth the effort to track down the missing ones.'

Because the original ones in the set…

"_For your collection," his granddad whispered before ruffling Aaron's hair and then placing six coins in Aaron's outstretched hand. "It's the 1973 Philly mint set, the one Santa Claus forgot to put in your stocking." _

"_Wow! Thanks, Granddad."_

"_You're welcome, buddy. Keep them safe, okay?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Now, go get in the car. Your dad's waiting. Make sure you're buckled up and make sure your mom is, too."_

_Aaron smiled, hugged his granddad, and dashed over to the sedan, tightly gripping the six coins. His father was glowering so he knew better than to show him the gift. Maybe when they got home or maybe tomorrow morning when his father wasn't so…_

_He stuffed them in his left pocket, thrilled that he now had both the Denver _and_ the Philadelphia mint sets. Aaron would start on the thank you note the moment he got home. _

"_Mom? Is your seatbelt fastened?" he asked. His mother blinked blearily at him and waved a limp hand. She was always tired after visiting, even though she drank a lot of his grandma's special orange juice. Aaron leaned over the bench seat and saw the strap across her waist (she never wore the shoulder harness because it wrinkled her blouse) before settling back in his own spot behind her. He knew better than to ask his father. That would earn the 'Seatbelts are for sissies' discussion and Aaron didn't want that at all._

_They rode in silence—one of his father's rules—and Aaron was good at following the rules. He fingered the coins in his pocket, itching to take them out. While Aaron wanted to inspect them, especially the Eisenhower dollar, he knew better than to do so while his father drove. His father had a tendency to change lanes sharply and dropping anything in the backseat was never a good idea._

_Suddenly, the car jerked hard to the right and slowed down. Aaron looked up and recognized the rest area but was surprised that they had stopped so soon. Maybe his father had to empty the ashtray or something._

_His father pulled in to the rest stop and got out of the car, gesturing for Aaron to do the same. He obeyed, looking over to where his mother was dozing in the front seat like she always did, even if it was only a two and a half hour trip. _

_His father now loomed over him, hand outstretched and palm open. "Give me your change."_

_Aaron looked up, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of sour sweat and beer. He knew that any face he made when his father was in this particular mood earned a hard slap. He also knew better than to play stupid. He pulled out his hand with the coins. "They're the ones Granddad gave me."_

"_You don't deserve them," his father snapped before prying open Aaron's hand._

"_But Dad! This is the 1973 Philadelphia mint set…"_

_The slap across Aaron's face sent him tumbling back against the sedan. The coins scattered on the ground. "Do not talk back to me!"_

"_But it's a set and I promised Granddad that I'd keep them safe," Aaron insisted, knowing he was flirting with another hit. "I promised him."_

"_You didn't do shit to deserve them!" His father grabbed his shirt front and threw him to the ground. "Pick them up! Now!"_

"_Do what your father says, Aaron," he heard his mother slur. _

_Aaron bit his lips together. He knew better than to cry. He picked up all six coins and got to his feet. His father grabbed him by his shirt collar and propelled him to the set of vending machines; Aaron managed to hold on to all of the coins. They stopped in front of the one with cigarettes._

"_Pall Mall, unfiltered."_

_Aaron temporarily froze. He knew he was risking a beating—not like anyone would intervene because the rest area was deserted—but, "I promised Granddad."_

_His face was suddenly smashed against the glass of the machine. "Pall Mall, unfiltered."_

_This time, Aaron couldn't help the tears that welled up in his eyes. He deposited the quarter, the nickel, the half-dollar, and the dime. He pulled the lever for the red-packaged cigarettes. He heard the coins drop in the machine._

_He watched as the packet of cigarettes tumbled out._

"_Give me the rest of it," his father ordered._

_Aaron picked up the packet of cigarettes and placed it along with the two remaining coins in his father's hand. _

"_If you wash both cars, take out the trash, and weed the garden, then _maybe_ you'll earn these back. But it will have to be your best work. None of that half-assed shit like you do for your mother." His father then sneered at him, "Are you crying, you little…"_

"_There you are, William," his mother's voice interrupted. She listed to the side as she walked, wobbly on the chunky heels that she wore. "And Aaron… my little Hopscotch… my…"_

"—Hotch? Aaron? Aaron!"

Something touched Hotch's shoulder.

_He's here. He's back._

Hotch surged to his feet, tipping the chair over as he did. Someone was shouting at him. Fear poured through him.

_He's here. He's back._

Hotch pawed blindly for his weapon, stumbling backward as he did. The pain flared, causing him to bend to one side out of sheer agony. Hands gripped his upper arm but he jerked away. He lost his balance. He fell hard on his ass, his back slamming against the wall. He pulled his weapon. His vision was blurry but he knew he was the best shot in the BAU.

_Front sight… _

He sucked in short breaths, his lungs refusing to allow him deeper ones.

_Doesn't fit the profile._

"Hotch! It's Emily! You're safe!"

_Front sight…_

His hands shook.

_Doesn't fit the profile._

"It's Emily Prentiss! We work together at the BAU. You ran security clearances for my mother years ago. It was one of your first commands."

"Front sight…" but the gun wasn't lining up properly. He couldn't hold his weapon steady.

He couldn't take a full breath.

_Doesn't fit the profile._

"Please! Hotch! Don't make me… please. Hotch! _Aaron!_ It's Emily Prentiss! I work with you at the BAU. It's just me! You didn't answer the door so I let myself in. You're safe. You. Are. Safe. Focus on my voice. Focus!"

"Front… sight…"

"_Aaron! _You're safe. It's Emily and you are in your apartment. You didn't answer the door so I let myself in. You're safe. Put the gun down. Please. Put the gun down. You don't want to shoot me. It's Emily. God, Aaron. Please."

"F-f-front…"

"_Aaron!"_

Ice cold hands wrapped around his and the weapon.

"Let go of the gun, Aaron. Now."

His grip tightened. "I promised..."

"Let it go."

"I promised…"

"Agent Hotchner, I am giving you a direct order: let go of your weapon."

"I…"

"I am ordering you to let go of your weapon."

His grip loosened. The metal was pulled from his hands. His arms were still outstretched as if he still held it.

He felt fingers tugging at his pants leg. He heard the hostler being unsnapped. He felt the weight removed from his ankle. His arms dropped to his sides.

"Agent Hotchner, what is the security code to your alarm system?" she demanded. She grabbed his chin and shook him. "What is the security code?"

He stared at Emily's pale features, the starkness of her red lipstick making her mouth look bloody. She was angry. Oh, so angry. He was in trouble. He knew that. He did something wrong. So… the only way to make it right again was to obey.

"Three hash one four one five," he managed to get out.

Emily dashed over to the keypad and pounded in the code.

He then watched as she sorted through his desk, picked up his cell phone, and jabbed at the keys. "Agent Hotchner, you need to tell the security company that this was a false alarm. Do you understand?"

His breath still came in short bursts.

"_Do you understand?"_ she barked.

He flinched, curling in on himself. She was angry. Oh, so angry. He knew how this worked. He knew what would happen if he didn't do as he was told. "Yes."

"_ADT Security Company. How may I assist you, Mister Hotchner?"_ The phone was on speaker.

His father wasn't the only one who could wield a belt.

"T-this is Aaron H-hotchner," he forced himself to say. "I-I tripped…I t-tripped the…alarm."

"_Sir, is there anyone else in the apartment with you?"_

"This is Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss with the FBI. I am a colleague of Agent Hotchner's." Her voice was firm. Powerful. Terrifying. "We tripped the alarm by accident. You don't need to send the police."

"_Mister Hotchner?"_

"I-I'm fine," he stuttered. "I tripped the alarm by accident."

"_Sir, we have a security team en- route…"_

"Unnecessary. False alarm."

"_Sir…"_

"False alarm. I've only had it for two weeks. I'm still learning. I made a mistake. I'm sorry."

"_Okay, Mister Hotchner, if you're sure, I'll have dispatch cancel the trip."_

"I'm sure. Please. Please don't send them."

"_Okay, I'm canceling the trip. Have a nice afternoon, sir! Good bye!"_

He watched as Prentiss hit the end key. Prentiss then punched in another series into the phone. This time, her voice wasn't as authoritative. This time… she sounded worried. Aaron knew how that worked as well. Guilt always followed the anger.

"Reid, it's Emily. Look. I'm here with Hotch and there's a situation…What? His other phone? Reid! Slow down. Okay. Find his other phone. Okay. Wait. Found it! Okay. Call Samson. Got it…I'm hanging up now." There was a long pause, silence broken by four beeps and the rustling of paper.

Prentiss was now kneeling in front of him, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead several times and placing her thumb against his wrist. Hotch stared at her.

She had his smaller cell phone pressed firmly to her ear. "Hello, Mister Samson? This is…Reid? What? Why?...Okay, don't answer that. No. He wasn't answering his door so I used the spare key…For God's sake, I'm not Morgan, Reid! I don't kick in doors! The deadbolt and chain weren't on. He was sitting at his desk but didn't turn around when I called to him…Of _course_, I called the security company and said it was a false alarm…Okay. Okay. No. He jumped out of his chair and fell. He's not hurt…No. Reid…Reid…_Spencer, damn it!_...Yes, hyperventilating like a panic attack but he seems to be calming down…Yes, pupils are dilated from what I can tell. He's shaking. Clammy skin, racing pulse…" Prentiss stood up and walked to the kitchen. "You want me to read off all the labels?...What? Okay…okay…hold on."

She knelt in front of him and grabbed his hand. "Agent Hotchner? When is the last time you took your medication?"

Aaron sucked in a breath. He held it.

"Agent Hotchner?" Prentiss squeezed his hand. "Agent Hotchner…"

"I-I don't remember. I'm sorry. I don't remember. Please. I don't remember."

"He doesn't remember, Reid," Prentiss reported, but then stroked the top of Hotch's hand gently. "Okay. Okay. Yes. Got it. I'll wait for your call. Okay." She hung up the phone and grasped both of Hotch's hands. "Aaron? It's gonna be alright. I swear to you. We're going to get through this and you're gonna be okay." She sat next to him and gently placed an arm around his shoulders. She pulled him gently to her, stroking his hair. "It's gonna be okay. I swear. It's gonna be okay."

***/***

The humiliation burned Hotch to his core.

This new physician presented her CV as she had sat on his couch, waited until he read it, and then asked if he had any questions. Which he did, of course. The exchange was more like Hotch heading a hostile interrogation than a friendly 'so what are your qualifications and how do you know Reid?' session, but this woman was new and Hotch wasn't about to let just anyone into his private life.

He supposed he should be impressed by her training, her credentials… the fact that she was willing to make a house call on a moment's notice.

Hotch was still phenomenally uncomfortable. His weapons were locked in the gun safe on his nightstand. Prentiss had ordered him to clear his code so she could enter her own, which she did after she had ordered him to take a shower. Prentiss hadn't allowed him to redress in a suit; he was stuck with khakis and a button-down but that certainly beat sweatpants and a tee-shirt.

The new physician—Doctor Kincaid—didn't melt under the pressure. She met his gaze and answered every single question, even if some her replies were, "You know I can't answer that, Agent Hotchner, due to doctor-patient confidentiality."

"You've testified before," he observed.

Her lips curved into a smile. "A witness before God as well as the Fifteenth Judicial District."

Hotch didn't laugh.

"You're stalling," she added and then pulled out a clipboard. "I am doing this as a favor for a man whose friendship I greatly value, but my patience for patients only lasts so long. Are you going to allow me to evaluation your condition and make recommendations? It's a yes or no question. I don't want a long-winded explanation on why or why not."

Hotch looked away. He nodded.

"I need a verbal commitment, Agent Hotcher. Those are my rules."

"Yes," he said hoarsely. He looked down at his tightly clasped hands. Prentiss was "running errands" or whatever the hell that meant, but she would be back soon.

"Good. Then. We are going to verbally review your medical history, up to and including the attack that took place here, and then we are going to discuss what happened today."

And Aaron Hotchner did what he was told, because he'd learned long ago that the faster one complied, the quicker things were over.

At least Hotch was allowed to keep his shirt and trousers on. It made the whole situation a tad more tolerable but not by much.

Not by much at all.

***/***

The revised drug regime was somewhat overwhelming. Decreasing dosages of something Hotch had been taking paired with increasing dosages of a new medication. The one cup of coffee per day he negotiated for was stipulated that it had to be decaf.

A log book so that when he took his medications, he wrote down when he was taking it, what with, and how he felt at the time.

The promise to return to Doctor Kincaid's office in two days with said log book in hand.

Prentiss typing in the details into her blackberry calendar, and then sending an invitation for him to accept on his. The entry was generic and could have been interpreted by outsiders as Prentiss simply sharing with her boss an appointment with her physician.

The crushing sense of shame because Prentiss witnessed him so weak, so vulnerable, and knowing that she was going to report back to Reid.

Spencer.

_Spencer. _

Spencer who had friends in places Hotch would have never thought to look. Physicians just didn't make house calls anymore, especially on thirty-minutes notice for a patient she had never heard of.

_I'm still listed as your emergency contact, so until you change that, this is my business._

"You need to report this incident to Rossi," Hotch told Prentiss once Kincaid had left. He was sitting in the armchair, she on the couch. He stared at his bare feet on the beige carpet. The embarrassment was devastating but he knew he had to say it. He had to take responsibility. "There's a form…"

"God_damn_ it, Hotch!" Prentiss exclaimed as she rocketed to her feet and pulled at her hair. "Will you stop? No one is filing any report!"

He placed both hands on the armrests as if to stand. She stormed up to him, startling him into staying in his seat.

"You listen to me, Aaron Hotchner! You are a good man. The most decent and brave man that I know!" Her eyes were wet with tears. "You have constantly put yourself on the line for every member of this team, _every single one of us!_ You called the Goddamned _Vatican_ so that the man who murdered Matthew would be brought to justice!"

"Prentiss…" he warned.

"Don't you dare 'Prentiss' me!" She took a deep breath and met his gaze. "So now it's our turn to take care of you. And by God, you are going to put up with it no matter if you like it or not."

"I'm doing just…"

"If you say 'fine' so help you, God."

Aaron bit his lips together, staring at his feet. He whispered, "I don't know how to do this."

She knelt down and grasped his hands. "Then don't do it alone."

***/***

Aaron stared at the cell phone plugged in to the charger on his nightstand. It was his personal one; Prentiss had confiscated his work one. He supposed he could bully her into giving it back. She was, after all, sleeping on his couch. She insisted, saying it was either her or Garcia, and he relented. He couldn't take colorful fluffy things right now.

_You don't want any of them to see you like this_.

It was 4:23 a.m.

Stupidly late.

Stupidly early.

Stupidly _something_.

He picked it up and flipped it open.

He looked at the call log.

Samson. 12:23 p.m. 05:21

Samson. 2:57 p.m. 03:01

Samson. 6:12 p.m. 00:37

Samson. 9:41 p.m. 00:05

Aaron bit his knuckle, hiccupped a sob.

_The only reason you weren't committed to Snowden at Fredericksburg_.

His hands shook.

He typed: I'M SORRY.

He hit 'send'.

He closed the phone.

He set it on the nightstand.

He grabbed Spencer's pillow and hugged it to his chest.

And for the first time in twenty-three days, allowed himself to cry.

/***/ Finis /***/


End file.
